“I am afraid that there’s very little chance for us,” replied I; “but I’m ready to attempt anything.”

“We shall see, Tom—­where there’s a will there’s a way.  However, it’s no use talking about it just now.”  Here Bramble filled his pipe, took out his flint and steel, and lighted it.

After smoking for ten minutes, during which I stood by him, he said, “I wonder where they will take us to—­St. Malo’s or Morlaix; for the course they are steering will fetch, I should think, thereabout.  One thing is certain—­they’ve got a good prize, and they mean to keep it if they can; and, my eyes! if they won’t make a fuss about it!  A ship with twelve guns taken by a lugger with only six!  They’ll make the ship mount eighteen or twenty guns, and have a hundred and fifty men on board, and they’ll swear they fought us for three hours.  They have something to boast of, that’s certain; and I suspect that French captain is a brave sort of chap, from the sneer he gave when our cowardly English lubber gave him so fine a speech.  Well, it’s our disgrace!”

Here Bramble was silent for some time, when I said to him, “You were stating to the men how a Leith smack beat off a privateer the other day.  I never heard of it.”

“Yes, I heard it when I was up above Greenwich.  I met an old friend who was on board of her, for he took his passage in her from London.

“‘Why,’ says he to me, ’Bramble, I thought we never should have got away from the river, for the old captain, who was as big round as a puncheon, and not unlike one, declared that he would not sail until the powder came up from Woolwich; for the “Queen Charlotte” (that was the name of the smack) carried six eighteen-pound carronades.  We waited nearly a week for the powder, and many a laugh we all had about it, thinking old Nesbitt was not much of a fighter, from his making so much fuss.  Well, at last we boomed her off from the wharf, and about seven that night got clear of the Thames; it was a fair breeze all night, and we ran through the Swin by the lead, which is what every one won’t attempt.  Next morning we were off Yarmouth Roads, with the water as yellow as pea soup:  never saw it otherwise, and I’m an old collier; reason why, the swells of the ocean thrashes up the sands off there—­ay, and shifts them too occasionally, which is of more consequence.  Well, Bramble,’ says he, ’well, on we went; hauled in through Harborough Gut; then the sun had so much power—­for it was in the Dog Days—­that it eat up the wind, and we were obliged to content ourselves with getting four knots out of her.  Just as we made the Dudgeon Lightboat, old Nesbitt’s son comes aft to his father, who was steering the craft, and says, “Father, do you see that ’ere brig crowding all sail after us?  I think it be the New Custom House brig trying his rate of sailing with us.”

“’"Never you mind what she is, boy,” says the captain, “but away up and furl the gaff-topsail.”